


Crystals

by bosspigeon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Creampie, Cuddling, Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nightmares, Oral Sex, PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Piercings, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Size Kink, Subdrop, Subspace, Verbal Check-Ins, agender adaar, bull is a good dom, but like sweet dirty talk, past child slavery, there's no such thing as too much lube, trans masc adaar, uses he/him pronouns, wet and messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/bosspigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Felicien Adaar is overwhelmed. By duty, by emotion, by nightmares and memories. Sometimes, he needs a shelter from the storm to get him through the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peel Away the Bark

 

 _I know I’ll wither so peel away the bark_  
_Because nothing grows when it is dark_  
_In spite of all my fears, I can see it all so clear_  
_I see it all so clear_

**_"Crystals"  - Of Monsters and Men_ **

* * *

 

There are times when he feels he is being worn so thin he can hardly think. Between repairs, reconnaissance, supply requisition, rebuilding, he feels like he hardly has time to breathe.

When he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, grinding down on his spine, when he feels he’s going to snap under the pressure, he seeks a safe harbor. Before, he had none. But then, he had none of the same responsibilities either. He had only himself, his demons, and a ragtag bunch of rejects he once hesitated to call family but now misses like a part of himself.

But he cannot think about that now, not when the cold stone walls are closing in, when dreams of gilded ropes twist around his windpipe until he chokes, when he wants to lock himself in a dark room and scream until his throat bleeds.

He finds himself in the tavern, something heavy and terrifying roiling in his gut he can’t breathe he can’t breathe  _he can’t breathe!_

A door creaks open somewhere in the darkness and there are hands on his shoulders, squeezing, gently, but still it’s too tight and his face feels hot, like it’s melting away, like molten gold is pouring over his head and trapping him, turning him to nothing more than a glittering trophy, a bauble to put on display. He wants to  _scream_ but nothing comes out but a choked-off sob.

Suddenly, he is weightless, and the scent of sweat and leather and metal and home fills his chest, helps him to breathe again, soft words against his ear in a language he only barely knows, but he locks onto the one word that matters, clings to it like a lifeline, lets it pull him back to who he is.

 _Kadan_.

He opens his eyes and they ache, and for a moment of panic he thinks he’s alone, trapped in a dark, close room, stone walls, stone ceiling, stone floor, how long has it been? Until–

A muffled curse, the sound of flint striking tinder, a soft dancing point of light that guides him home.

“There’s my princess,” Bull teases softly, stroking one battered hand down Felicien’s cheek.

And he  _is_ Felicien. Not  _Agnus_ , not  _pet_ , but  _Felicien Adaar_.

And sometimes… Sometimes he is Kadan.

“Nightmare?” Bull asks, cups his lover’s face, caresses the sharpness of his cheekbones, the quivering pout of his lips, the feathery golden flutter of his eyelashes.

Felicien sucks in a breath, sharp and wheezing and painful, like breaking the surface after almost drowning. “It was dark… the room. The room where she…” He chokes, looks around in the dark with eyes wide and wild as a spooked horse. “What day is this? What time? I… I was trapped for so long, I…” The words are painful, rasping and catching like glass shards in his throat, like he hasn’t had water in  _days_ , and Bull fumbles about for a bit until he finds a discarded canteen. The water sloshing about inside is warm, tastes more like tanned leather than anything else, but it’s better than the purest springwater to him, and he guzzles it down like he’ll never get another chance.

His heart is racing, pounding against his ribcage as if to escape, thrumming in his ears so loudly he can hardly think.

“I’ve got you, kadan, I’ve got you,” is murmured soft against his ear, accompanied by the gentle, damp press of a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the curve of his jaw, and finally, his mouth, slow and undemanding. He exhales shakily and then breathes in, hands trembling as they rise to cup the solid jaw. Bull is like stone, solid and real and grounding, and Felicien comes back to himself shaking and sobbing as if he’s falling apart.

Sometimes,  _this_ is what he needs. He needs something, someone, to help him feel real, like he exists as he is, a free person. Like the past twelve years weren’t some fever dream from the dark, room. Like they were a hazy fantasy conjured by an exhausted young mind trapped in darkness until it forgot  what it was like to live in the light.

“I saw you just a few hours ago, Boss,” Bull assures him, holding his chin in one massive, calloused hand and staring hard at him, and it’s like a thread pulling him gently back into himself. He clasps his hands over Bull’s, clinging, nails digging in just a little, and closes his eyes. “We had dinner, remember? Sera threw a biscuit at Blackwall, tried to make it stick in his beard and you said–”

“’No, throw it at Bull, he will try and catch it in his mouth,’” Felicien finishes, giggling a bit hysterically. “That… was just a few hours ago. I remember. I just…” He lets out a shaky breath, leans his forehead against Bull’s chest, warm and solid and tangible, hands still clutching those thick fingers like a lifeline. “This… is real. Not a dream. I am… awake. And I am Adaar. Felicien Adaar.” It sounds as if he is trying to convince himself that this is the truth, and he slowly releases Bull’s fingers to flex his own, staring blankly at them for a moment, almost quizzically.

“The Boss, esteemed leader, our Lord Inquisitor,” Bull adds, offering a crooked little smirk.

Felicien looks up, smiles back, but tense and just a little frantic. “Can I just be Felicien for now?” he pleads, soft and desperate. “Can I just be… can I just be your kadan?”

Bull’s lone eye softens, and he strokes his thumbs down the mage’s cheeks. “Always, kadan.” He leans in, but bypasses Felicien’s mouth to drag a kiss along his jaw, until an impatient little tug to his horn pulls him in the right direction.

Feli’s lips are quivering, but insistent, his whole body leaning into the kiss like he’s starving for it. He twists his fingers into his own rumpled clothes, and for a moment he’s startled to find he’s still dressed in his vest and shirt. Bull laughs, a low rumble that echoes between their chests, and his fingers hover at the carved ivory buttons, a silent question.

“Yes,” Felicien breathes, and the buttons are flicked open one by one, though Bull grumbles and curses at each one as he fiddles with the tiny things. Felicien almost wants to laugh.

“You fall asleep at your desk again?” Bull asks, finally pushing the brocade vest from his lover’s broad shoulders, only to groan upon finding more, even  _smaller_ , buttons to battle on his soft linen shirt.

“I think so,” sighs Felicien, draping his arms around the Iron Bull’s thick neck. “Can’t remember. Could you do that faster?”

“Do you want me to rip your fancy shirt in half?” A deadly sharp (if faintly exhausted) look is answer enough. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Now hush and let me work. Stupid fiddly buttons…”

Finally, all the cursed fastenings are taken care of, and Bull brushes away the soft fabric and touches warm skin etched with delicate webs of lacy tattoos, kisses a dark nipple adorned with a golden barbell, mouths out the path of a little blue bumblebee, nudges the blunt tip of his nose against the delicate center of a flower nestled between swooping collarbones.

Slowly, Felicien falls backwards, into the pillows, and a feather puffs up from one, somewhere to the left of his head. He watches it float downwards with a dazed sort of fascination as Bull unlaces his dark leather boots and tugs them off, then peels down his breeches and smalls in one expert sweep.

He’s drawn out of his reverie by a weight dropping down beside him, sending even more feathers into the air for him to watch, until Bull’s strong hands guide him closer and he curls up against his side, cheek resting on one powerful shoulder.

“Remind me to requisition new pillows for you,” he mumbles sleepily. “These ones have holes.”

“It’s inevitable with the horns,” Bull replies, and the shoulder under Felicien’s head shifts in a halfhearted shrug. “I still don’t know how you avoid it.”

“By sleeping on my side.”

A soft snort breaks the moment of silence that follows. “Oh. Yeah, no, I can’t do that.”

“We will have Monsieur Aclassi knit horn cozies for you,” yawns Feli, snuggling deeper into the solid warmth that is the fearsome Iron Bull. He is so big, and sturdy, with just the right amount of give to be soft and comfortable.

“I want ‘em to be pink,” is the last thing Felicien hears before he is drifting off to sleep. 


	2. Raw and Charcoal Colored Thighs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Bull. Huge and imposing, a former Ben-Hassrath, and now a dangerous and powerful Tal-vashoth. He can drink and brawl with the best of them, but when his Kadan needs him, he is there.
> 
> (Felicien Adaar is trans masculine, but identifies as agender. He uses he/him/his pronouns. Warning: I do use the words dick/prick/etc, as well as cunt to refer to Feli's genitalia. It's a personal preference of mine, as I don't see them as being gendered terms, though I am aware not all trans masc people see it that way. Just letting you know!)

Cover your crystal eyes  
And feel the tones that tremble down your spine  
Cover your crystal eyes  
And let your colours bleed and blend with mine

_**"Crystals"  - Of Monsters and Men** _

* * *

 

“Ropes?” Bull asks him, one big, calloused hand gliding along the soft underside of Felicien’s arm, tickling the crook of his elbow for a split second (earning a choked noise that is most assuredly _not_ a giggle) and further until he can stroke the intricate knots of sturdy silk rope binding his wrists.

“They are fine,” he murmurs, eyes half-shuttered by thick golden lashes.

“Not too tight?” the bigger man rumbles, slipping a finger under a loop and testing the tension.

Felicien hums, tugs a little to test the bonds himself, flexes his fingers and rolls his head to the side. “ _Non_ , they are perfect,” he says, soft and relaxed, much more than he's been all day, it seems. It's been a rough few weeks on everyone, but none more so than the pretty vashothari mage who bore the yoke of Herald.

“Doesn't hurt the, uh…” Bull gestures to the Mark that glows in Felicien’s hand, wanting to stroke the spider web of poison-green cracks trailing down his inner wrist.

“Please,” the Inquisitor interjects sharply. “Do not. I do not wish to think about it.” His voice is strained, pleading, and Bull banishes the title of Inquisitor from his mind. Tonight, there is no Inquisition. No rifts, no demons, no megalomaniacal darkspawn magisters.

Tonight it's just the Iron Bull, and his Kadan. Nothing outside this room matters. All that matters is the gorgeous creature stretched out across the heavy quilts, bound from wrist to elbow to chest to waist with rich red silk ropes like bold streaks of vitaar painted across his stone-dark skin.

They've done this only a handful of times before, working carefully through issues of comfort and insecurity, figuring out where to draw lines and where to push boundaries. In the months they've spent together, Bull quite likes what he's learned, and hopes there's time to learn even more.

First, he strokes along Felicien's jaw, the smooth curve tilting up to press into the touch, exposing that soft throat, like an offering. It bears a fine lace and flower choker of white ink, and Bull drags his knuckles along Felicien's chin and down his throat to follow the delicate needlework with the tip of his thumb. Sometimes he sees those tattoos and thinks they are beautiful, and sometimes he remembers that they were carved into his lover's skin like a brand by the woman who hurt him so deeply. Sometimes, he wants to sink his teeth into them, to make his own mark, one that doesn't hurt his precious Kadan so much as the memories etched into his body. So he does, finds a tender place  marked by a delicate swirl of lace that is just low enough to be hidden by a starched collar, and sinks his sharp teeth in, sucking until the dark skin blooms with a mark just a shade darker. You wouldn't notice it without trouble, but to Bull it shines like a beacon. He knows his eyes will instinctively seek it out until it fades.

Felicien swallows, and his throat convulses, plush lips parting in a soft sigh. As if he knows just what Bull is thinking, and finds just as much delight in it as his lover.

No matter the scene, they always start slow, getting acquainted with each other's bodies, finding comfort in tracing well-known paths of skin with hands, lips, teeth that have traveled those same paths so many times before. Felicien is a skittish thing, naturally wary, and it took time for him to press up into the touch of Bull’s heavy hands instead of curling away. But now, he pushes, arches, twists his body in his bright binds to get closer to the surprisingly deft fingers gliding their way along his body.

He watches, eyes heavy-lidded, like a cat luxuriating in a sunbeam as Bull gets comfortably settled at his side, the weight on the mattress angling their bodies even closer together. He likes to watch what Bull does to him, following the journey of his hands with those sweet blue eyes, trying desperately to keep them open even as a playful tweak to his pierced nipples, or a wet kiss just below his sternum has him gasping, lashes fluttering softly against his dark cheeks.

“Bull,” he croons, eyes closing for just a second as the scarred mercenary tongues gently at the little gold sun dangling from his navel. He all but purrs when Bull applies his teeth instead, tugging just a little at the delicate gold trinket before moving on to the whorls of ink that form a lacy honeycomb over the curve of his hip.

Bull's hand finds his other hip, squeezing gently, thumb digging in just under the bone, just hard enough that his lover squirms. “You make the sweetest sounds, Kadan,” he whispers, and delights in the full-body shiver the soft praise earns.

Praise is key, Bull has learned. Sweet words, affectionate nicknames, oaths of love whispered into sweaty skin as they ride out their pleasure together. No toy, no scenario, no artfully knotted rope could compare to the sheer sweet pleasure Felicien gets from just hearing the word Kadan being kissed into his skin as indelibly as his tattoos. He glows under praise like a flower under the sun, and he clings to Bull like a man possessed if he's able. Whines like his heart is breaking when Bull’s hands leave him, until a gentle “Hush now, Kadan” stills his squirming.

Bull's exploration continues, mouth leaving shiny trails along midnight skin, tongue tracing shapes around sweet spots until Felicien moans like music. The build-up is what gets him the most, the achingly slow way Bull worships his body, leisurely traversing hot skin and straining muscle as if mapping him to memory.

His patience earns him a kiss or two, slow and languid, a slick, hot slide of tongue and lips and tiny, needy whimpers, and he never strains against his bonds as much as he does when Bull catches the plump curve of his pierced lower lip between his teeth and drags slowly, _slowly_ away. Like always, he lifts his head, even as the ropes press into his throat, chasing Bull’s mouth as if he'll die without it. When Bull is finally too far to reach, he falls back against the fine sheets and whines, deep in his throat, until Bull shushes him with a finger to his plump lips.

“You'll get plenty more later, Kadan,” the massive qunari assures him, kissing down his throat and chest once more. Felicien relaxes into the covers, shifting and sighing until Bull pinches his hip and smiles up at him from just below his soft belly. “Stop wiggling so much,” he growls, with just the barest rumble of authority. Felicien stills immediately, even though his legs strain against the ropes like he wants to spread them.

When they're together like this, Bull loves how obedient he becomes, how he falls into it as if it's a relief to let someone else take control from him and tend to him like he deserves. Out in the field, Felicien gives the orders, and Bull follows them readily. His Kadan has a good head on his shoulders, and Bull knows he'll make the right choice most of the time. But here, alone together, Bull can pluck control from the mage's clenched and shaking hands, watch how he lets go and sighs gratefully, like a great burden has been lifted. He doesn't worry about the Inquisition, or how he desperately keeps control, keeps everyone as safe as he can, and just follows Bull's softly spoken commands like it's a relief to just let someone else take care of him, for once.

Bull also loves that his pretty Kadan would never trust anyone else with this, with taking the lead and tying him down and tending to his body as well as his heart. He says it rarely, but Bull knows that he is Felicien's Kadan just as much as Felicien is his.

They both need this, the security and safety of being together, locked away from the rest of the world where it can just be them.

Finally, when chill bumps are blooming all over Felicien’s skin where Bull has kissed, nibbled, and suckled with vigor, he pinches Felicien’s rear just enough to make him gasp and jump and glare down his belly at his subtly smirking lover. “Spread ‘em, gorgeous,” Bull says, wiggling his eyebrows. The mage makes a face, like he’s caught somewhere between “ _Oh Maker, finally!_ ” and “ _You crude, uncultured brute_.” And his thighs drop open with hardly a touch. He’s already glistening with wetness underneath the neatly kept white-gold curls, and he spreads his legs as far as the length of rope tying his ankles together will allow. First, Bull gets comfortable, and he takes his sweet time with it, and he sees Felicien’s thighs straining with the effort it takes to keep still.

“You’re behaving so nice for me,” Bull says cheekily, and the smaller vashoth cuts an icy glare at him that would be intimidating if not for the fact that his lips are wet and swollen, his hair is a wild halo of gilded white curls, and his chest is heaving as he is nearly _panting_ with anticipation. Bull just smiles at him before leaning down, wrapping a hand around one soft thigh, and using the other to loosen a key knot in the silk cord so he can shove his lover’s legs further apart.

And then, with no preamble but a cocked head and Felicien’s response (a hushed, near-desperate “ _Yes_ ”) he dives down and immediately puts his mouth to work. Though Felicien is expecting it, he still gasps, arches up until the ropes dig in enough that there are sure to be furrows in his skin by the time this is all over. The thought pleases Bull far more than it should. He's even wetter than Bull thought he'd be, and he can't help but chase the slick to its source and lap it up like he's dying of thirst.

Felicien keens, shuddering, belly twitching sharply with each shaky little gasp, and if Bull weren't holding his thighs at bay, he knows they'd be clenched around his ears. Which absolutely would _not_ do, seeing as Felicien made such pretty noises when Bull was eating him out, and he loves nothing more than listening to them, like music.

He slides his broad hands up behind his lover's knees, squeezing just a bit, and pushes them up until he can drag the smaller qunari’s hips clear off the bed and toss his legs over his shoulders. Felicien yelps, whines eagerly, and crosses his ankles behind the former Ben-Hassrath’s thick neck, and then slumps against his hold like a ragdoll. Bull grins at him over the soft downward arch of his belly and chest, lingering just a bit proudly on the strain of his shoulders, flexing to support Felicien's upper body, as well as the red ribbons of silk streaking his gorgeous body like a canvas.

Bull's never considered himself the artistic type, but he can't see his lover as anything but a masterpiece in this setting. “I should keep you just like this,” he growls, sinking his teeth into the softest part of the mage's inner thigh and soothing the hurt with a kiss. “Keep you all tied up and doe-eyed and _wrecked_. Hire one of those fancy Orlesian painters to come and get this all down on canvas.”

Gasping as if scandalized, Felicien turns his head and buries his face in the nearest pillow, and Bull knows he's blushing from ears to chest, even if he can't see it. He's felt that blush countless times, spreading his Kadan’s skin like wildfire, as Bull whispers affectionate filth into his delicate pierced ears.

“Aw, don't be shy, Kadan,” he croons, rubbing his cheek against Felicien's thigh, before dipping to feather wet little kisses along the crease of his hip. “You're fucking gorgeous. A work of art. C’mon, look at me, love. Show me those pretty blue eyes.”

Slowly, Felicien turns away from the pillow, fidgeting with his lip piercing with his teeth. Bull grins.

“There they are. Fuck, I could look at you forever.” He lowers his head again and blows cool air against his lover's hot center, watches the shudder work its way up his body. Sweat has already begun shining on Felicien's skin, his brow, his throat, pooling in the dip of his collarbone. It glistens on his dark skin like starlight, and Bull would like nothing more than to take some time to kiss every drop away, but he's far too busy at the moment. He lifts two fingers up and spreads his lover open, and bunts the tip of his flat nose gently against the slick little prick there. If Feli's hands were free, Bull knows they'd be clutching his horns for dear life, and (however much  the pretty mage would deny doing something so “crass”) doing his damnedest to shove Bull's mouth harder against him.

“Bull, please,” his Kadan murmurs, hips squirming until the ropes wrapped artfully around his thighs start to go slack. Bull hums disapprovingly against his slickness, grabs the knotted ends of the rope dangling around his tattooed calves, and tugs sharply so the rest tighten up nicely. He checks the tightness before rearranging the knots Felicien's knees. The way he has them arranged, it would be all too easy to fasten them so that his knees are bent, ankles lashed to his thighs, and he hums before making the decision to do so. It takes a moment, and thus, takes away from quality time with his lover's needy cunt, but he arranges the ropes thus, and eagerly returns to work.

Felicien all but sings for him, broken, breathless sounds torn from his throat. He can only squirm so much bound as he is, and Bull can tell he loves it, given how much slick he's dripping onto the burly warrior's tongue. His first orgasm shudders through him like a small earthquake, thighs trembling and breath stolen from him in thready little whines. Bull could easily work another one out of him right on the tail end of the first, but his Kadan is so _sensitive_ after coming, and he'd like to draw things out a bit before he has him sobbing with overwhelmed ecstasy.

“Don't--” Felicien tries to speak, but all he manages is that first word before his throat clicks dryly, and he has to swallow hard and lick his lips before he's worked up enough moisture and breath to string together a coherent thought. “Don't look so smug,” he huffs, straining his shoulders in an attempt to sit up and glower. Bull hardly has to poke him before he sprawls flat again, and he drags his wet beard teasingly over Felicien’s swollen dick in a dirty ploy to silence him.

It works, of course, his lover's breath leaving him in a shaky, indignant rush, the only word he can muster a tremulous little “ _Oh_.”

Bull takes advantage of the silence he's bought and shifts northward again, kissing Felicien soundly. It's filthy and perfect and the way the mage sucks hungrily at his tongue has him nearly growling before he pulls back, tempers things down from a bright blaze to a slow burn, mouths moving together slowly, an ebb and flow that soothes perpetually strained nerves until any residual tension has seeped from Felicien's shoulders.

“How ya feeling, kadan?” Bull asks, nuzzling his way down his lover’s jawline.

“Warm and floaty,” Feli murmurs, and there's a hint of a dozy smile to his kiss-swollen lips, eyes nearly closed and lashes fluttering.

“Perfect.” Bull kisses him again, soft and slow, and presses the bulk of his frame to the soft angles and curves of the one beneath him. “I'm going to turn you over now, is that alright?”

“Yes,” Felicien breathes, and he goes limp to allow Bull to turn and shape and mold him, pliant and willing. He ends up with his face in a mound of pillows, trussed arms stretched before him, on his knees with ankles unbound. He's so exposed, so beautiful on display like this, and Bull can't resist smoothing a blocky hand down his spine and over the curve of his ass. Nor can he resist dipping a fingertip between puffy, wet folds, savoring the little gasp he gets in response.

He presses a little more, into the slick heat, and Felicien moans sweetly, pressing back just a little. Bull lets the tip of one thick finger slip inside, then withdraws, watching as the pretty pink hole flutters and clenches as if to halt his retreat. “So pretty like this, kadan,” he croons, rubbing two fingers along Feli’s folds to get them nice and slick, before pushing at his hole again. He takes one finger easily, hungrily, and the massive mercenary can hardly wait to get the second inside too. “All wet and wanting. I could keep you like this for hours, couldn't I? You wouldn't complain a bit.”

A whine builds deep in the mage's throat before he can think to stop it, and he buries his face into the pillows to hide his sounds. He's hardly hidden for a second before Bull has his free hand curling around that soft tattooed throat. He knows the limits like he knows how to breathe, doesn't squeeze, just lets his fingers rest there, maybe stroke very, very softly. It's the warmth his Feli likes, the weight, the familiarity of callouses and of the empty spaces of missing knuckles on his ring and pinky finger. The ever-present knowing that it's Bull who does this to him, who tends to him at his most vulnerable. And it's the implicit trust that Bull likes, the knowing that Feli would never trust anyone else with this, that this is just for them.

Bull's sunk in three fingers by now, and that's no small feat given the size of his hands, but Feli pleads for yet more with every stilted roll of his hips, every breathless whine. Petite for a vashoth, his Kadan is, but far from fragile. He could probably take Bull's entire hand if he had the mind to, and the thought shouldn't titillate the burly merc nearly as much as it does. Perhaps that's something to discuss later, he thinks, because right now he's got a pretty gilded mage writhing on four thick fingers, wet and wanting and more than ready to take his cock.

He withdraws his fingers with a sound so wet and _filthy_ he can see the shudder working down Felicien's spine, and he smirks to himself as he pulls away from the lovely gift he's got trussed up so nicely. Felicien makes a soft, wounded sound deep in his throat, somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and looks back over his shoulder. The sky-blue of his eyes is little more than a sliver around blown pupils, his lips bitten dark and puffy. There's sweat glimmering on his forehead, gilded white curls clinging to his cheeks. He looks a mess, if a deeply affronted one.

“Where are you going?” he demands (well, _whines_ , really) watching Bull cross the room with a deep, if bleary-eyed moue of displeasure.

Bull rifles around through the drawers for a moment, then wiggles the bottle he's found in lieu of response.

“I know you're wet enough to take me three times over without breaking a sweat,” he says with a dirty grin, delighting in Feli’s affronted scoff, “but I live by the rule that there's no such thing as too much slick.”

He lumbers back to the bed and braces one knee on the plush mattress, uncorks the bottle with his teeth, and unceremoniously upends a quarter of the lightly scented oil (what is that, roses?) right over his Kadan’s pretty little ass. The mage yelps loudly at the chill, and shoots a glare that would incinerate a lesser man over his shoulder. Bull just gives him his most charming smile, and takes a healthy handful of his rump, giving it a self-indulgent squeeze before spreading the oil over his cheeks, warming it up along the way. A good bit slides down his crease, mingling with the wetness of his cunt, and Bull follows it down with his fingers and hums his approval when they nearly pop inside by accident.

He pours another healthy dose into his hand before slicking up his dick, and perhaps getting a bit distracted in the process. He may get his kicks from serving his lover, but that doesn't mean he's not still hard enough to drive nails after tending him for well over an hour. It takes an imperious little _“Ahem”_ from Felicien to remind him to stop playing with his piercings and get back to work.

Bull likes to take his time with most things in the bedroom, but especially this. He shuffles into a position comfortable for his leg, bracing his hands on either side of Felicien’s waist and pressing his hips again his lover's backside. For a little while, he just rocks a little, letting his dick drag heavily along the slick crease of Feli’s rear, letting his gaze wander from the mess of snowy curls, down the curve of a spine adorned with white spirals and whorls of ink, all the way down to the obscene sight of his hefty shaft sliding back and forth against darkly shimmering skin. If he draws back far enough, the blunt head drops down just enough to press torturously against Feli's wet cunt, only to drag back up again.

Feli's desperate for it now, squirming as much as he can in his pretty bindings, the ropes straining and pulling against his skin, digging in marks that Bull is going to spend ages seeking with his mouth.

“Bull… Bull,” he gasps like a litany, doing his best to rub himself against the sheets as much as against Bull's hips. “Please, I--”

Bull shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down, thumbing back his foreskin and finally, _finally_ lining himself up. Feli's breath hitches in anticipation, syllables lost to a single long, happy keen as his lover's thick shaft sinks home. “That what you wanted, Kadan?”

Feli can't answer beyond a thin little mewl, and the way he squirms, clenching, trying to get more of Bull inside is absolutely breathtaking. Bull has to press one hand down on the base of his spine to keep him still, or this will all be over far too soon for either of their liking. Bull leans over him, pressing against his back, and lets his weight draw him deeper into Feli's wet heat.

“Perfect,” he growls into one pierced ear. “So fucking perfect for me, Kadan.”

“Bull, I--” He tries to speak, but his words trail off in a garbled noise of delight when he feels the bigger vashoth’s hips pressing snugly against his backside. Instead of words, all that comes out of his mouth is a soft, drawn-out whine.

“There we go,” Bull says, rubbing gentle circles into Feli’s hips with his thumbs. “Feel good?”

“Mmnnn,” Feli mumbles in reply, face buried in the pillows. Bull pats his hip lightly, pinches when he doesn't respond.

“Come on, Kadan, verbal check-in?”

“It's perfect,” Felicien sighs almost dreamily, “Y… you feel perfect.”

That gives Bull the warm fuzzies like nothing else, and he leans forward to pepper kisses along his lover's shoulders. “Nothing’s numb or anything?” he prods gently, slipping his hands underneath the supine mage and cupping his chest, squeezing the flesh made even more prominent by the artful criss-cross of ropes. He gives Feli's pierced nipples a slight tweak, just enough to perk him up a bit.

“No, no,” he finally replies, wiggling a bit as if to be sure. Bull chuckles, nuzzling into the sweat-perfumed cloud of curls cascading over dark shoulders. He adores when his Kadan is like this, in this blissful, floaty space where his worries are stripped away and he can just… be.

It's what he needs, every now and then. When the weight of authority is grinding him into the dust. He needs to be taken out of his bustling headspace of soldiers and scouts, maps and treaties, demons and spirits and all hell breaking loose all across the world. It's too much for just one small, patchwork organization can handle, much less one person. If Bull could just take him away from all this, hide him away somewhere he didn't have the hopes of an entire continent hanging heavy from his taut shoulders, he would. He'd do it in an instant, without a second thought.

But Felicien, fierce and stalwart Inquisitor Adaar, would never run from the responsibilities he never asked for. He bears the burden of the title and all that comee eith it, not with pride, but a raw, grim determination. The Iron Bull couldn't drag him away, not with all his brutish strength, not with the strength of all his Chargers.

But he can give him this.

Bull presses his belly to Felicien’s back, feels every breath shuddering into his chest, every mindless clench of his bound hands, every minute twitch of delicate fingers. He curls one of his own hands around the mage's throat once again, and finagles the other down between his legs to press between his wet folds, two fingers framing the slick, hot jut of his sweet little prick. Feli moans, soft and low, wriggling his hips a bit. His inner muscles clench, and Bull groans into his hair and gives a nice, slow roll of his hips.

Sex is often something of a snug fit when your name is _the Iron Bull_ , but Feli’s so turned on, so wet and welcoming, it’s a hot easy glide that has them both melting. Bull strokes his throat as he withdraws, squeezes his dick between his fingers as he pushes back in, alternates tactics just to keep his pretty Kadan guessing. He builds his rhythm gradually, takes his time, lavishes attention on the mage squirming under the weight of him, and just listens to the sweet little noises dripping from his lips like music. Little grunts and groans, whimpers and whines, the occasional squeak or yelp as Bull flicks the tip of his cock or swivels his hips.

He talks to him too, a steady stream of pretty filth murmured into a gilded ear. Feli plays the part of the refined, regal diplomat flawlessly in public, but Bull’s learned that, in private, a good bit of dirty talk gets him going like little else. Nothing degrading or humiliating, no, but whispered obscenities and dirty promises interlaced with the praise he so craves makes for a potent one-two punch that has him fairly gushing. And Bull tells him so. Tells him how sweet he is, all trussed up like a gift, how gorgeous and perfect, how well he takes a thick cock, how good he feels squirming in Bull’s arms.

Bull fucks him steadily harder, drawing out his thrusts to get nice and deep, fingers gliding easily through the sloppy wet mess they’re both making. He bites gently at Feli’s earlobe, squeezes his throat ever so slightly, then moves his hand up his lover’s chin, stroking around his gasping, mewling mouth. He wiggles the piercing in his plushy lower lip just a little then slips two fingers between them to press against his tongue. Those full lips close around his thick digits without hesitation, suckling weakly. There’s not much suction, since he’s too busy gasping and moaning wordlessly for more, but Bull knows from experience he likes the weight of thick fingers in his mouth.

He arches and twists and Bull knows well that the more he squirms, the closer he is to coming. He’s hot and fluttering inside, bearing down and Bull can feel their combined slick trickling down his balls. He works the hand between Feli’s thighs a little faster, kisses his neck, his shoulder, the twisting curve of his upper back, traces his tongue along the raised patterns of white ink on dark flesh and when he feels his kadan’s cunt clench tight, he bites down at the crook of his neck, sucks hard and fucks into him a few more times until he feels him shudder. Feli moans long and loud, slightly garbled by the thick fingers weighing down his tongue, and mewls something that sounds like Bull’s name.

Bull grunts, panting just a bit, and pulls his fingers out of Felicien’s mouth. He gives the mage’s prick a few more little strokes until his whole body his shaking with overstimulation, and then withdraws, relocating both hands to the soft curve of his Kadan’s narrow waist. “Want me to finish inside, Kadan?” he croons sweetly, nuzzling into Feli’s sweaty nest of hair. “Fill you up and make a proper mess of you?”

Feli’s only answer is a piteous little keen and a weak, but near-frantic nod against the pillows followed by some weak garble of broken Orlesian, and Bull shifts his legs, bracing his good knee and hoping the bad one won’t be too sore in the morning, and hunches over his lover’s back. He balances himself with both hands on the mattress on either side of Felicien’s torso, and withdraws nice and slow, pressing back in with a hearty groan of relief. No more holding back, he’s taken care of his Kadan and now its his turn to take his pleasure. He doesn’t need to move fast, doesn’t really want to. He’s waited this long, and now the home stretch comes with a slow bloom of heat in his gut, his hips nestled snug against the inviting curve of his Kadan’s gorgeous ass. He comes long and hard, a shudder rippling through every muscle as his body sags against the bound mage beneath him. Feli takes it with a soft, warbling cry as he feels the wet heat of it inside, and he whines when Bull pulls his softening dick out much more slowly than is strictly necessary.

With his face planted in the pillows, arms trussed up behind his back and ass in the air, Feli presents a pretty picture of debauched satisfaction, peering back through bleary blue eyes around his shoulder, cunt pink and puffy, his clenching hole dripping a shimmering mix of his own and Bull’s cum. Bull uses his thumbs to spread him open (delighting in the tremulous whine he earns from touching Feli when he’s so sensitive) so he can watch the mess trickle down over his cute, reddened cock and onto the sheets. It’s such an inviting sight he leans forward and licks a hot stripe from Feli’s dick to his ass, lapping up the mess he’s made with happy, hungry, and entirely lewd sounds he knows will drive his lover crazy.

Feli cries out, weak and reedy and beautifully cracked, wriggling his hips wildly like he’s not sure if he wants to get away from Bull’s mouth or press into it, and the Tal-vashoth only torments him for a little while longer before he pulls back with a loud slurp and a satisfied sigh.

He takes a moment, lets them both catch their breathe before he starts undoing the strategically placed knots and catches, years of experience making it quick and easy. He winds the rope up into a neat little coil and sets it aside, then rolls Feli onto his back, helping him stretch out his limbs, shakes and rubs out the pins and needles limb by limb, kissing the furrows left by the ropes along the way. The rope burn is minimal, but what little there is still gets a healthy slathering of soothing aloe lotion he keeps by the bedside for just such occasions.

Feli is soft and pliant in his arms, eyes heavy-lidded and muscles slack. Limp as a ragdoll, all dozy and content, just coming back on that edge of the drop. The more Bull pets and cuddles him, kisses his hair and murmurs sweet nothings in soft Qunlat, the more he seems to come back to himself, until he’s peering down through lowered lashes as Bull hums and wipes away the mess between his legs with a warm, damp cloth.

“There’s my Kadan,” Bull rumbles, crawling up to kiss the tip of his nose. “How do you feel?”

Felicien is quiet for a few long moments, stretching a little and testing his mobility. “Sore,” he admits softly, lifting his hips so Bull can strip the soiled bedsheets. “But a good sore.” Bull hums thoughtfully as he piles the sheets by the door to be dealt with later.

Bull returns to the bed to finish his cursory wipedown of his lounging lover, who shifts a little to “help” but mostly lets the bigger vashoth move him about as necessary. He’s probably feeling heavy and sleepy by now, wanting a healthy dose of attention before he drifts off to sleep, and Bull is happy to lavish him with whatever attention he wants.

He ends up leaning against the headboard with Feli against his  chest, wrapped in a blanket while the burly mercenary finger-combs his thick curls and tries to finesse it into some semblance of a braid with his big, admittedly clumsy hands.

“It’s terrible,” Felicien says fondly when Bull drops the mangled mess over his shoulder. Bull wraps both arms around him and squeezes, rocking a little from side to side.

“You try styling hair when you’re missing most of two fingers on one hand, Kadan,” he retorts, picking up the end of the “braid” and using the end to tickle his nose. Feli sneezes and turns to glower without any real malice. Bull forges on, “My hands are good for a lot of things. Swinging an axe, punching faces, making pretty mages cream themselves cross-eyed…”

Feli gasps, affronted, and swats Bull weakly on the shoulder, but Bull just laughs and kisses him sloppily on the cheek.

“They’re not that good at smaller, fiddly tasks. I’ll never be able to thread a needle.” He holds out the hands in question, heavy, calloused, tough and hard. He laughs a little, wiggles them, focusing especially on the two severed ones on the left. Smaller, softer hands slide along his wrists and up, to rest palm-to-palm with his, fingers lacing between his own.

Felicien reels them in close to his chest and kisses each scarred knuckle, leaning back into Bull’s broad chest with a soft little sigh. “I think,” he murmurs, turning his head so he can tuck himself underneath his burly lover’s chin, “that they are perfect, perfect hands.” He squeezes and doesn’t let go. “They are caring hands and I love them.”

“You are so sappy when you’re well-fucked,” Bull teases, kissing the top of Felicien’s head. Of course, he loves him this way, and they both know it. They’ve both had their fair shares of pain, heartbreak, misery. The smaller vashoth isn’t the only one who seeks shelter in what they have, and they’re both well aware of that. Being Kadan doesn’t always go both ways. There have been times in the past where Bull knew he cared much more than the other party did. But here, in this, they’re both secure. Felicien is Bull’s heart, just as Bull is Felicien’s.

“I love you,” Bull rumbles into his Kadan’s soft hair, almost too quiet to be heard. But the room is dead silent but for their breathing, and it carries just fine.

“I love you too,” he whispers against Bull’s shoulder. “My heart.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically just self-indulgent hurt/comfort, fluff, and filth in no particular order and i am not sorry
> 
> if you'd like to know more about feli, visit me on tumblr! (court-the-qunari.tumblr.com)


End file.
